Taxi Number 51

by Radu George Dumitru (Romania)

Making a local connection St Maarten

The airport was a swarm of tourists trying to sort things out. From the long line of taxis, no one was going past Marigot since the demonstrations turned violent. People talked about roadblocks, Molotov cocktails, and cars that were going up in flames. I worked my way up the taxi line asking for a ride to the French side just to get 34 polite refusals. At the end of the sidewalk, right under the tiny shadow of a palm tree came salvation, bearing the form of a gazebo packed with locals and tourists alike. I asked for a beer and advice on how to get to Orient Bay. One Carib in hand later, I walked towards a group of 6 taxi drivers taking a break. The men shook heads and talked about the riots. None will take me, but for Greg. He straightened his white dandy sunhat and gestured north: "I just came back from the ferry terminal and the army opened the road past Marigot. There's a barricade near Grand Case but I'll try to get you through. If not, you'll walk across and grab a taxi on the other side". The men started laughing. "You'll get yourself beaten, Greg!" they shouted behind us. He turned back and with a big smile pointed out to the hat: "I have my lucky hat!" We shook hands and hit the road in his black minivan, passing smoking car carcasses and debris at every major intersection. Marigot looked like a war zone and we barely avoided the group of people shouting angrily and throwing stones at the Gendarmerie. Greg stormed through Galisbay, took a sharp left on an unpaved alley, and ended up in a narrow road boarded by shanties on each side. We were grounded to a halt, engulfed in a thick black smoke that smelled like burned rubber. Five other cars were in front. I broke the silence: "What are the protests about?" "They are losing their homes. And this time it's not the hurricane, but the politicians" We waited. As each car was turned back, I learned about hurricane Irma, who brought havoc to the island, uprooting both trees and people. Houses were shattered by winds that blew faster than airplanes. Boats were torn apart miles inland. Cars were reduced to bleached twisted pieces of metal. Hope was not lost, and once help came, people started to rebuild. The shants still bore the sign of the storm and the people those of the hardship that followed it. Greg grew ticked. Like them, he was living in a damaged house and had no permit to rebuild. The government changed the rules and now papers were needed. The poor were stuck in the middle with no roof over their head and no way out. "We have nothing!. I have no papers for the strip of sand where my grandfather built the house I live in!" As the last car was turned back we moved forward, past the smoke, towards the barricade. "Don't worry! They are nice people, it's just bad timing", said Greg getting out of the van. He started talking in Creole. I couldn't understand but could feel the tension in the air as one young goon got borderline aggressive, pushing and shouting. Greg stood his ground just to be pushed again and again. His white hat fell on the ground. Slowly he picked it up and said something. There was laughter and the tension loosened. Now everyone was making fun of the young goon. As Greg turned back to the van, one of the spilled trashcans was moved aside to clear the road. "Pa ni powblem! They are my people, I grew up here!" "For a moment I thought you'll get in trouble with that guy" "With him? No, he's upset because I know his sister well and she really likes my hat. I just told him she would get angry if I will not wear it tonight at dinner". On that evening taxi number 51 passed the last barricade at Grand Casse, lucky white hat on one ear.